


Hallowed Ground

by Missgoldy



Category: Captain Planet and the Planeteers
Genre: F/M, Fear, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Horror, Psychological Horror, Trauma, Trick or Treat 2019, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-30 20:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21146447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missgoldy/pseuds/Missgoldy
Summary: Stranded without supplies. Blundering through subtropical heat and forest in the dead of night. Injured and on their own. Creepy, abandoned cabin in the middle of nowhere.What the hell could go wrong?





	Hallowed Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OzQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/gifts).

> Written for the 'Trick or Treat' Exchange 2019

The purge was anything but accidental.

Gi assumes the motley assortment of crew members lounging in the main cabin remain unaware of their presence. They certainly weren’t aware of their subsequent disappearance. 

Argos Bleak had known, though. Call it a sixth sense, or a hunch befitting a man with a big ego and an alarming lack of conscience. Bleak had taken them all by surprise, rounding them up with lethal efficiency, binding their hands and removing all rings bar Linka’s.

That should have been the first blaring alarm to sound in Gi’s head: that he would have preferred murder but settled begrudgingly on impending bodily harm instead. A twisted ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ type scenario would have no doubt played out in his head before he made that split-second decision.

How considerate of Bleak to give the team a fighting chance.

His hand was too close to the release lever. Too convenient, really; a hair-trigger impulse and a smarmy grin, before the roar of the wind and the engine buffeted their ears.

That was when the bottom fell out from under them.

A fifty-foot drop from the cargo hold of a light plane during take-off isn’t recommended for the faint hearted. Gi and the others can now attest to that. Still tethered by ropes with only thick foliage and Linka’s ring to break their fall, they’d spent the next half hour trying to untie one another whilst bickering amongst themselves.

Under different circumstances, they’d be better prepared. They’d have communication devices, camping equipment, supplies and the latest in GPS technology. When the job was done, an afternoon such as this would be spent enjoying the serenity with the locals — sitting around a large campfire singing Kumbaya with a few beers to go around.

But they’re stranded in the middle of Shitsville, south-east Asia, with only the clothes on their backs and a couple of metal water canteens to sustain them. Gi’s best guess would be Myanmar or Thailand, judging by the topography and the sub-tropical heat driving them to distraction.

So they have no choice but to move on, seeking signs of civilisation, with the mosquitoes and Ma-Ti’s earnest affirmations buzzing in their ears.

* * *

The low rumble of thunder sounds in the distance. Gi sighs, stalking through the undergrowth with an almost violent tenacity. She’s sweaty, insect-bitten and generally pissed-off to high hell, barrelling her way through blindly, encountering thick foliage that causes her skin to itch and her eyes to water.

The sun is setting; amber-tinted rays streaming through an endless barrage of gnarled, ancient trees. Night will soon set in, leaving them out in the elements; helpless and stranded in… wherever the hell they are.

As if this day could get any worse.

Their injuries are quite minor, considering their abrupt kamikaze freefall without a parachute.

Ma-Ti is still bleeding. Having crashed onto an outcrop of jagged rocks, his shirt is wrapped tightly around a leg wound, and the Heart Planeteer’s usually relaxed expression has switched to a pained grimace.

Linka is limping, her arm clutched tightly around Kwame’s shoulders whilst she shrieks at Wheeler ahead of them — the ghost of a previous argument continuing to fuel her heightened, pissed-off mood.

The Fire Planeteer is in the lead; bleeding from a deep cut to the head. He’s stomping through the dense tree line and hurling back insults with his usual full-blown Brooklyn intensity.

Neither of them will back down, but that’s not unusual.

One of Wheeler’s razor-sharp retorts clearly touches a nerve. Gi watches with bated breath as Linka tears herself away from Kwame’s steady grip, shoving him aside and sending the Earth Planeteer sprawling.

She lunges almost comically toward Wheeler with a pronounced limp, her hair dishevelled and plastered against her forehead, her cheeks rosy but her eyes blazing.

They disappear into the forest ahead, still arguing, and Gi is unsurprised to see Wheeler’s arm slip around her waist as they depart, helping her along. Even in the midst of a blazing row, his thoughts are on Linka and her welfare. Even so, Gi is glad to put some distance between herself and the warring duo.

Kwame slows, and Gi notices the way he straightens, his hand clutching below his ribs. He looks worn and haggard; his legs peppered with cuts and bruises.

“You okay?” she asks gently as she falls into step beside him.

He shakes his head, brushing off more pine needles that puncture his skin and clothing. “I am a human pin cushion,” he laments.

“They’re getting worse,” Gi observes, gesturing toward the bickering voices still echoing ahead. The dim flicker of hope that her friends will sort out their differences is fading as time goes by.

“It is their way.”

“I used to think it was cute.”

“They will either kiss each other or kill each other,” Kwame says sagely. “There will be no middle ground, I am afraid.”

Gi purses her lips, glancing down and rubbing the inside of her hand. There’s a dull ache at the base of her palm, and she runs her thumb over the reddened skin.

The action is not missed by Kwame.

“Painful?” he asks, taking her hand and turning it over, inspecting it carefully. “You did not mention it before —"

“Just sore,” she whispers, distracted by Kwame’s gentle touch. “Think I landed on it funny.”

He enfolds her small hand securely between his palms in a well-worn gesture of comfort and reassurance, and she thinks that maybe — hopefully — this is proof that there’s something there. Something tangible, something felt deeply by one, but yet to be reciprocated by the other.

She’s too shy to make a move, too self-conscious about the risk of embarrassment and disappointment should the response not be to her favor. He would let her down easy, she decides, in his usual calm and rational manner. Outlining the reasons with kindness and compassion yet dodging the true elephant in the room… that he’s probably not interested in her.

Doesn’t stop her from pining quietly.

“The light is leaving us,” he announces distractedly, glancing around and not noticing Gi’s glazed, somewhat slack-jawed expression — but then he never does.

He squeezes her hand gently and releases her, gesturing toward Ma-Ti. “Bring them back! We need to stay together and find shelter.”

Kwame and Ma-Ti push on, and she’s left standing amidst imposing, rugged forest; dejected, mosquito bitten and alone.

It’s not the first time.

Linka and Wheeler have their tempestuous, volatile friendship as a means of distraction. Ma-Ti has his affinity with animals, and Kwame is to the mission. Always to the mission.

It’s the same old dance, just a different disco.

Just for once, Gi wants to be someone’s priority rather than just an afterthought. There’s a bitter aftertaste that has accompanied that realisation of late, and it causes hot resentment to burn through her veins. It’s a long-held burden since childhood, of parents too wrapped up in their research to notice the needs of their somewhat neglected daughter.

Never complain. Painted smile. Obedient and respectful. Bite your tongue, child. Maintain your composure. She’s a china doll — a porcelain, pleasant façade belying the fractured woman contained within.

Gi sighs, following the others who have unknowingly paired off – as per usual.

Five can be a cruel, isolating number for the one who’s left out.

* * *

It’s dark and gloomy, the moonlight the only thing guiding their way. Ma-Ti pushes aside yet another large branch and it whips back painfully against Gi’s face for the umpteenth time, causing her to cry out in pain.

“Ma-Ti!” she seethes.

“Sorry,” Ma-Ti replies testily. “Don’t walk so close behind me!”

“I can’t see where you’re walking,” she grumbles.

They have no idea where they’re going. They could be walking in circles for all Gi knows. She sighs, resigning herself to a rough night spent out in the elements. She presses a button on her watch and grimaces at the blocky digital numerals that flash to prominence.

22:47pm.

They’ve been wandering aimlessly for six hours now, with nothing to sustain them but wild berries and their own frayed tempers. Thick brambles tear their skin and the humidity in the air is downright uncomfortable.

A gentle trickling sound can be heard, and Kwame leads them toward it, finding questionable water from a slow-flowing stream. It’s the best they can do under the circumstances and they drink their fill, replenishing the two small metal canteens they have on them and collapsing by the riverbed to rest for a moment, exhausted and miserable.

Gi flops back onto the ground, taking a moment to rest. Closing her eyes, she tunes out for a while, succumbing to the exhaustion she feels deep within her bones.

She smells the stale scent of rotting undergrowth beneath her; of stagnant water and ancient, decaying things. She hears the gentle whistle of wind through the trees, of leaves trembling in the breeze. It’s a mournful, haunting sound, yet it doesn’t give the same comfort as the forests she knows so well back home or on Hope Island.

There’s nothing else. No animals, no crickets, no birds. Nothing.

Gi finds herself in a state of unease. She hauls herself up and tries to make eye contact with Linka, propped uncomfortably on the other side of the stream. Seeking reassurance, seeking a friend — but Linka’s arms are wrapped around her knees and she’s evidently in a world of her own. The Wind Planeteer’s steely gaze is focused solely on Wheeler, her eyes narrowed and still reproachful.

But before Gi can dwell too much on her emotionally unavailable best friend, Kwame announces they need to keep going. They’re on the move again, leaving the unnaturally quiet waterway behind them.

* * *

It’s past midnight. There’s nowhere to set up camp, let alone supplies to assist them. No tent, no sleeping bags, little room to spread out amongst the densely packed trees and prickly undergrowth. There’s no sign of civilisation whatsoever, just an ancient, undisturbed ecosystem that seems to stretch endlessly.

Lightning and thunder are cracking regularly and it’s making them all anxious. Gi and Wheeler have been quite vocal about wanting to build a makeshift shelter and bunker down for the night, more than happy to fall in a heap where they stand, undisturbed and dreamless.

The others want to keep going — and the majority always wins.

Gi’s shoulders slump in despair. The wind starts to whip around them, and she wraps her arms around herself, shivering despite the cloying heat. There’s an argument brewing regarding their next move, and Gi has little interest in joining in. Her opinion won’t count for much anyway, she decides with resignation.

The lightning continues to crack; cutting jagged tracks through the sky. The forest seems to be converging; twisted, monochromatic limbs crowding them. The wind whips harder, and a newfound threat of violence hangs in the air.

Tempers are fraying. Gi slumps against a twisted trunk as irate voices punctuate the darkness. She’s exhausted and miserable, wanting to curl into a ball at this point and let the elements take their due course with her body and her mind and her soul.

Another flash, and something catches her attention; a small, odd detail etched into the bark of the tree to the right of her. The sky darkens and it disappears just as quickly, but she’s certain of what she saw.

“Guys?” Gi calls, reaching out blindly in an effort to locate the abnormality that shouldn’t be there in the first place. 

The sky lights up again as she moves closer. It’s a symbol, she notices, almost runic in appearance. An inscription carved at eye level into the bark, about the size of Gi’s outstretched hand. A archaic script that seems jarringly out of place — and time, for that matter. Two dots with a curved line over them, and a vertical line intersecting the centre. 

Stepping back, Gi bumps into Wheeler’s solid frame and clutches him tightly.

“Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“Some kind of symbol —"

He nods toward Kwame and Linka’s retreating figures. “Looks like El Capitano and the Ice Queen have decreed we move on.”

“There’s something on the trees —”

“Uh huh,” he says, evidently not interested. “Okay. Looks like we’re leavin’.”

She swallows nervously, clutching her palm. It itches and stings maddingly, and she wonders if some errant plant life is responsible, perhaps something she’s brushed against. With a nervous backward glance, Gi treads carefully after Wheeler, barely able to make out his hooded figure amidst the gloom.

“Least it’s not rainin’,” Wheeler mutters, folding his arms across his chest and glancing around nervously. “Gotta look on the bright —”

The sky opens up; the rain falling thick and fast, and Gi resists the urge to punch him.

* * *

“You have not answered my question!”

“I don’t owe you nothin’,” Wheeler bellows, blundering through muddy vegetation that seems endless. “Stop whinin’! You’re like a freakin’ terrier — always at my goddamn heels barkin’ about somethin’ —”

Linka’s screech is one of indignant rage. “Well, if you were not humping the leg of every second woman we encounter, we would not be having this conversation —”

“Why the hell is that any of your business? She was cute!”

“She was working for Plunder!” she shrieks.

“I was pumpin’ her for information —"

Linka snorts with exasperation. “You would have been pumping her for other reasons before the evening was out —”

“So?” he spits. “And why the hell are you entitled to an opinion, anyway?”

“I am a member off this team —”

“SO WHAT!” he yells back. “GET OFF MY GODDAMN CASE!”

“YOU’RE A PIG!”

“AND YOU’RE A SEXUALLY REPRESSED KNOW IT ALL!” he bellows back. “BACK THE FUCK OFF!”

Gi sucks in a harsh breath at that one, knowing that a not only has a boundary been crossed, but completely obliterated.

Linka’s reaction is instantaneous.

She launches herself at Wheeler, clawing and punching viciously as he bellows in pain. He staggers around, trying to throw her off, and the remaining team rush to pry them apart as the rain pelts down around them. Gi’s heart is thumping hard as she manages to drag Linka away. Gi’s slippery shoes eventually lose traction in the mud and they both topple sideways, crashing to the ground with a yelp.

“Oh my God,” Ma-Ti groans as he stands between the still shrieking pair, his hands outstretched like a Spanish matador. “This is really not helping things.”

Kwame grabs Wheeler and hauls him away, and Ma-Ti hurries after them, leaving the girls alone.

Gi catches her breath, still holding onto Linka for dear life, ignoring the venomous Russian expletives spewing from her mouth. Linka’s sneakers scuff and drag against the sodden undergrowth, but Gi refuses to let go.

“Calm down,” Gi whispers. “Just calm down.”

It takes a few minutes, but Gi eventually feels Linka’s body slump in her arms. She pulls Linka’s matted hair away from her face and wraps her arms around Linka’s slight frame, hugging her tightly.

Soaked to the bone, the water puddles around them. Linka wipes the rain from her face, and her chin bumps companionably against Gi’s shoulder. “He just…”

“Just what?” Gi prompts.

She feels Linka’s breath expel against her neck in a long, shuddery sigh. “He just makes me so angry,” she whispers, hitching back a sob.

“I know.”

“I cannot help myself… I just want to…” she sputters tearfully. “He just knows how to touch my buttons.”

_Yeah, he wants to touch your buttons, all right._

A knowing smile crosses Gi’s face. “I’m sure the feeling is mutual,” Gi replies. “You’re both as bad as each other.”

“I cannot bear him —”

“It takes two, Lin,” Gi says, treading the proverbial waters carefully. “You’ve been looking for a fight, lately.”

Linka shrugs miserably. “I cannot control myself around him.”

Gi chews on her bottom lip, wondering if that’s how attraction works, that maybe inhibitions and consequences fly out the window. Maybe attraction manifests in different ways, calm and loving for some, or tumultuous and passionate for others. The biology at play fascinates her.

She releases Linka, rubbing her back in a soothing manner, and they sit side by side in their wet puddle of sodden leaves for a while, huddling together amidst the unrelenting downpour.

Eventually the rain eases, replaced by a low fog bank that seeps around them, swallowing their feet and legs. The air is cooler now; the humidity at somewhat acceptable levels.

Gi glances at Linka. Even wet, muddy and miserable, Linka still makes an impression. She’s a classic Nordic beauty wrapped in a Slavic genetic package. Tall and curvy, with high cheekbones and eyes of brilliant green, she’s got a body Gi would kill for, and the ivory-toned, smooth complexion that is so highly coveted by the women and girls of Gi’s culture.

Years of covering up from the sun, of skin-brightening creams and the media saturation that places an emphasis on the ‘pale is pretty’ ideal. The antiquated cultural notion drummed into her since childhood hasn’t escaped Gi, the one that associates dark skin with poverty and toiling in the fields.

Of not being good enough; a scrappy little nobody. Five-foot-two Gi with her flat chest and broad shoulders, her athletic body designed for swimming and little else it would seem. Largely ignored whilst the willowy blonde beside her draws the admiring glances and the vain attempts to engage one and not the other in witty yet banal conversation.

Invisible.

Linka’s arm winds around Gi’s shoulders, and despite her own self esteem issues, she’s forever glad of Linka’s company and her friendship. They share a cuddle briefly before Linka rises and pulls Gi to her feet. Rubbing her face tiredly, Gi glances up as their names float urgently on the light breeze.

The girls start to move, hand in hand and calling back into the gloom. They follow the sound of Kwame’s voice until they crest a slight hill and find themselves blundering downward toward a small valley, and the odd discovery that awaits them there.

* * *

The rundown cabin is almost invisible to the eye, tucked deep within the valley. It was located by chance, courtesy of Ma-Ti who had picked up pace and literally bounced face-first into its crumbling walls. Shrouded heavily by trees, the trunks are thinner here, mere saplings compared to the ancient, towering forest they’ve traipsed through.

Gi slows her descent as the crude dwelling comes into view. She can just make out the thatched roof, hanging in an uneven manner over the crooked lengths of bamboo cladding the exterior.

The windows are high and open, and the main entrance is nailed closed. There are several large holes along the side that have been bordered up using mismatched lengths of timber, adding to the general run-down appearance. Dirt and moss cling to the grooves between the wooden planks, and Gi runs her touch over the haphazardly laid planks, feeling the roughened texture beneath her fingers.

She can’t help but wonder about the unskilled hands responsible for building this hut… not to mention their current location and whereabouts.

Gi hears a low whistle that could only belong to Wheeler.

“Reckon they’ve built this bastard to safety standards?”

“I doubt it,” Kwame grunts, pulling himself up and peering inside one of the windows. “I cannot see any —”

Gi takes a startled step back as Ma-Ti pounds on the door suddenly.

“Anybody home?” Ma-Ti calls, and Gi isn’t sure if she wants that question answered. “Is anyone there?”

“The Manson family,” Wheeler mutters tiredly, huddled beneath the eaves as the rain starts to pour down again. “Dude, the place looks condemned. Maybe we should —"

“Hello?” Kwame calls, still searching for signs of life from within, but his eyes only just reach the windowsill. “Wheeler, give me a hand.”

Wheeler steps forward, providing a leg-up for Kwame to raise himself further. He wriggles through the small opening and disappears inside, taking part of the rotting wall with him.

They huddle beneath the window, trying to blend into the scenery; a rag-tag assortment of drowned rats seeking shelter. Gi leans wearily against the wall, hearing the odd thump and creak coming from inside.

“Not exactly Trump Tower,” Wheeler comments, wandering the perimeter and testing the bamboo for a way in before giving up. Dropping to the porch floor, Wheeler props himself against the side, his arms resting upon his knees as he surveys the fog still creeping in despite the rain.

“I will take anything at this point,” Ma-Ti says. “We can figure something out once we are rested.”

“I will find no rest here.” Linka’s arms are crossed, her body slumped with fatigue. “It was a mistake to stow away on that plane, I knew something bad was going to happen —"

“Oh look, she’s a psychic, now,” Wheeler mutters.

“Shut up, Yankee!”

“Always whinin’ about somethin’,” Wheeler mutters, before a loud, splitting noise startles them. The cabin walls shake briefly and a door is reefed open from the inside, causing Wheeler to topple backwards with a pained grunt, leaving him spreadeagled in the doorway.

Kwame is on the other side of the threshold, holding a lamp and beckoning them in. Ma-Ti dashes inside, stepping carefully over the prone Fire Planeteer, followed by Linka who makes a point of ‘accidently’ stepping on Wheeler’s ankle as she passes. With a backward glance at the silver-lit sky, Gi follows, leaving Wheeler to stumble to his feet and kick the door closed behind them.

* * *

Gi recalls the sparse interior of their makeshift shelter, musty and dank with fetid air. She remembers a few milk crates scattered around, and the half-eaten bowls of food lying discarded, congealed and solidified, crawling with insects and bacteria. The head of an unfortunate wild boar is mounted to the wall like a grim trophy, its sharp teeth gleaming in the light, it’s eyes glassy and sightless.

She can still see Ma-Ti poking around the hut and finding a second, smaller purpose-built room toward the back, and the indications left behind regarding the purpose of this place. The manacles and skinning knives. The stainless-steel trolley gleaming and clean beneath piles of dried animal pelts, no doubt sanitised to within an inch of its life after the blood of each animal spilled across it’s gleaming, metallic surface.

She remembers stripping down to her singlet and curling up beside Linka, listening to the wind and rain swirling outside. She can still feel the rough scratch of the hessian bag they used as a pillow, scrounged from beneath a crooked side table housing a variety of weird-looking implements. She remembers Wheeler’s deep, even breathing, and the muted glow of the lamp clutched securely in Kwame’s hands as he sat with his eyes closed, propped upright against the wall and dozing.

She remembers her own eyes, heavy-lidded with exhaustion as sleep took over.

* * *

_Gi sleeps, and she dreams._

_A sparsely decorated classroom. Bunsen burners and textbooks line the desks. Pencil cases are open, their contents spilled across shiny, chrome work surfaces. An announcement plays over the loudspeaker, barely heard over the excitable chatter coming from the room full of teenagers. The teacher drones on in front of a blackboard, issuing instructions with a bored expression, but the kids pay him little attention._

_She sits toward the front with her hands clasped together, her feet barely touching the first rung of the stool she’s seated on. It’s a hurdle even climbing this thing, an awkward ‘step and wrench’ movement that has caused her to overbalance on occasion._

_She’s too darn short._

_Gi risks a sneaky glance at the boy two desks behind her. He’s hunched over on his stool, his posture relaxed and cocky all at once. His bunsen burner is already lit, and he laughs, poking a school-issued pencil back and forth through the flame, encouraged by the vapid airheads giggling around him._

_Dohyun is a popular member of the school basketball team. She finds him handsome, not that she would ever admit it to anyone. With his angular jaw, and deep, dreamy eyes, there’s an element of mystery that intrigues her. His hair hangs too low over his forehead._

_Yoojin is with him, because of course she is. She’s everything that Gi is not. Tall as opposed to short. Wealthy as opposed to struggling. Pretty as opposed to plain. Vapid as opposed to pleasant._

_Cruel as opposed to kind._

_The corner of Dohyun’s pencil case is the next to tackle the flame. Gi stares at the plastic as it melts, the smell wafting through the room and drawing less attention from the teacher than it should be. Gi catches Yoojin’s cool eyes upon her, and she shrinks considerably at being caught out. The other girl ducks her head, whispering in Dohyun’s ear, her lips curled into a twisted smile. _

_Gi spins back around, dejected and embarrassed, her eyes settled again on the teacher. Her cheeks are aflame._

_The clock on the wall ticks slowly. The hour seems to be dragging. She sighs, straightening the school uniform that barely fits her growing body. It’s too tight, but her parents are still chasing elusive government grants and can barely afford the food they diligently pack in Gi’s lunch box._

_There’s movement behind her, whispers and sneaking footsteps. A tall kid with a shaggy haircut struts past, a stupid grin plastered on his face. He leaves the room without permission, followed closely by the annoyed teacher who questions what the hell he thinks he’s doing… and that’s when she realises what has happened._

_She smells the smoke, billowing from the flames, caused by the fire beside her feet; burning from within her tattered backpack. The plastic pencil case sits within the canvas and both are well and truly alight, the embers sparking against her calves and ankles._

_Gi jumps to her feet with a gasp, and the room explodes with laughter. She stamps on her bag with both feet, panicked and grief-stricken with the realisation that her beloved Walkman is tucked inside._

_She bursts into tears. Dohyun is in hysterics, wheezing and slapping the work bench. Yoojin and her friends simply watch the flames with feigned interest._

_The rest of the class resume their pre-bonfire conversations. There’s a party on the weekend. Someone’s father has bought a new car. Another offers their friend a mix-tape to borrow whilst the flames spread to Gi’s socks and charcoal grey skirt._

_She screams, batting the fabric with her hands, pleading and begging for water, but no one responds. She’s in agony, the flames licking her chest and hair as she tears around the room like a vertical fireball. She tries to flee to the girl’s toilets, but the classroom door is locked, and no one seems interested in rescuing the scrappy little nobody burning to death in the main science block._

_Before collapsing to the floor, she hears Yoojin’s voice, clear and calm, asking the others what they’re planning on eating at the cafeteria at lunch._

_Jia and Minji will have the bibimbap. Sungho will have the soup of the day… unless it involves intestines. He hates intestines. Fuck that. They all laugh, insipid and vain, their uninspiring conversation punctuated by the crackle of fire on flesh._

_The room converges, narrowing until there’s nothing left but ash and smoke._

* * *

Gi jerks awake with a start, the scent of fire still lingering in her nostrils. She gives a strangled gasp, clenching her knuckles, her hands and nose pressed hard against a smooth, yet somewhat pitted surface.

The back of her neck feels wet and it takes her a moment to realise she’s standing. It takes another moment to realise she’s back outside; the rain drifting perpendicularly onto the front porch and kissing her skin with a gloating madness, dampening the remnants of the flames from within her dream.

She hugs herself, staring out at the rain-swept night, her eyes scanning the horizon and seeing nothing but trees, but then there’s a shape dead centre that shouldn’t be there, a hulking shadow that hovers back and forth without an object present to help cast it.

Gi backs up against the door, batting blindly for a way in, doubting her sanity; perhaps her mind playing tricks on her.

The shape fades as she shoulders her way back inside on shaky legs, until she’s not really sure if she saw anything at all.

* * *

Ma-Ti stirs the contents over a small flame while Gi stares longingly at it, her stomach already rumbling.

“I cannot guarantee how this will turn out.”

“It’s Jasmine rice,” she says, eyeing the water-stained jute bag they had dug out of a crawlspace in the floor. “It’ll last indefinitely in the right conditions — if the container is airtight, that is.”

“I doubt that applies here,” Ma-Ti says dubiously. “Nice of the previous inhabitants to leave so much stuff here.”

“I’m guessing this was used as a makeshift trapper’s cabin,” Gi says, glancing around. “This place was probably someone’s home sweet home until they filled their season quota of… well, you know… dead animals,” she says flatly.

The flame flickers brightly. Ma-Ti samples the rice, and Gi notes the grimace that passes over his face.

“No good?”

“Needs more stirring.”

“Herbs and spices?”

“Served with a glass of red wine and sautéed vegetables would be nice,” Ma-Ti sighs. “Not that I am old enough to drink it.”

She smiles wanly. Rubbing her wrist, Gi glances back toward the remaining Planeteers, all sleeping on the other side of the room.

“Are you all right?”

“Bad dream,” she voices. “I thought I saw something out there.”

“Saw what?”

She shrugs, biting her lip, glancing down at her sore wrist. The inside of her hand has turned a shiny red color, the skin puffy and inflamed. Her veins are more pronounced than usual, and the dull ache has turned to a sharp throb.

Ma-Ti frowns, propping the spoon on top of the tin pot and inspecting the damage. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah.”

He frowns, seeming to run through a mental checklist in his head. “Belladonna does that.”

Gi’s eyes go wide. “You’re kidding, right?

“Just causes skin irritation. So long as you haven’t ingested any.”

“We’ve been eating berries, Ma-Ti —” she says, slightly alarmed. “How do you know —"

“We’ve been eating elderberries,” Ma-Ti says firmly. “Besides, nightshade doesn’t tend to grow in the Western provinces, but it’s certainly not unheard of. Probably a mild skin irritation from something you’ve brushed against.”

Gi nods, somewhat reassured.

Ma-Ti straightens, snapping his fingers. “Look what I found, by the way…”

He jumps to his feet and disappears into the second room with Kwame’s lantern; a rusted piece of corrugated iron separating the two rooms from one another.

Gi follows, squeezing through the narrow opening as Ma-Ti drops to his knees, rifling around in a wooden box large enough to hide a grown man. She runs her fingers over the contents of a small desk propped against the bamboo, passing the time while she waits, her fingers tracking through dust and blackened mildew accumulated.

A smoking pipe lies discarded on its side. The crumbling remnants of a plant substance lie scattered, along with various other paraphernalia; pots, chipped dishware and a tattered straw wide-brimmed hat.

A black and white photo sits propped against the wall, faded and water marked. An oriental woman and a child stare blankly; their expressions serious, wearing the clothing typical of peasants. A cheap plastic wristwatch sits just in front of the photograph, a 1980’s neon yellow hue, it’s digital mechanism no longer working. It looks glaringly out of place.

“Gi?”

Gi straightens, taking note of the weird item of clothing draped across Ma-Ti’s outstretched arms. It’s a costume of some description, moth-eaten and old. Red, black and blue, with two faded lightning strips that run across the chest, meeting in the centre. A brown utility belt and a flowing cape complete the ensemble.

Ma-Ti tosses the cape to Gi and she turns it over, clearing her throat at the dust particles release into the air. It’s water-damaged and quite old. There’s a stamp printed around the base of the neck and she squints at the faded trademark.

“Flash Gordon?”

Ma-Ti peers over her shoulder. “Who is Flash Gordon?”

“No idea,” she says, tossing the cape back to him. “Sounds American. Maybe Wheeler will know?”

“It looks like an old superhero costume.”

“What’s it doing in the middle of an abandoned cabin in South East Asia?” she muses, leaning over and grabbing another jute bag from the same chest. This one is smaller, with ripped eyeholes and a roughly stitched mouth in bright red thread. “Oh, that’s creepy.”

“Maybe the hunters dressed up for entertainment?” he says, staring at the ensemble in his own hands with unabashed interest.

“Weird.”

Ma-Ti’s eyes go wide. He snaps his fingers. “The rice!”

He rushes away and disappears into the main room; the costume bundled over his shoulder.

Gi’s eyes flick nervously toward the skinning bench lying cold and incongruous in the corner. It also seems out of place here; a stark, modern addition to the rusted and antiquated contents scattered elsewhere. The pelts piled on top are also unsettling. They would have been worth a great deal to whomever had left them behind.

She wonders, not for the first time, what prompted the inhabitants to leave.

* * *

_She’s swimming underwater, fast and free, twisting and twirling amongst coral reefs and brightly colored schools of fish. Five minutes… ten minutes… fifteen minutes, with no need to surface or draw breath. Her lungs have somehow adjusted, and she finds herself propelling faster through oceans of deep aqua, in a state of utter joy._

_Kisa’s beloved cry echoes nearby and she turns, overjoyed to see her dolphin friend cresting the water above her. They race one another playfully, ducking and darting. Gi reaches out, running her hand along Kisa’s smooth underbelly as the dolphin picks up speed._

_She’s blissful, devoid of thought or time, just succumbing to the feeling of fluid weightlessness. They’ve left the coral reef behind, finding themselves in open water. The colonies of fish are gone too, and the light is changing, the sun-dappled water growing darker._

_Kisa is breaking away. The gap between them is widening, and Gi tries to catch up, kicking harder, but it’s no use._

_Wait, she wants to say. Wait for me… but there’s no sound, because of course there isn’t. She’s underwater. Kisa’s retreating presence alarms Gi for some reason, and a shiver of apprehension runs through her._

_Kisa leaps again in the distance, breaking the surface, but Gi feels the pressure of the undercurrent pressing her downward. Kisa is soon out of sight, and she’s alone again. _

_Those transparent, cool aqua rays are eventually replaced by murky green sea water, then brown, then the beginnings of a deep, black nothingness. It’s like an invisible hand presses upon her back, guiding her further into the deep. Gi hurtles towards the darkness below, her arms and feet flailing in an effort to halt the break-neck pace, but it doesn’t do any good._

_The pressure builds, her small body not designed to withstand the forces of deep diving. Agonizing pain flares in her ears. Her eyes throb and bulge, and her chest starts to ache._

_Fear turns to terror. Terror turns to pure, unadulterated horror. There’s something down there, something malevolent. She screams soundlessly, throwing her arms in front of her face as a large shape looms ahead, a shadow within shadows, twisting and rippling, like something out of the depths of a Stephen King novel._

_She’s dying; her body swelling and blood vessels rupturing. The shape pulses once, twice, three times as she’s dragged lifelessly toward it, enveloping her in its deathly cold embrace…_

* * *

Gi rolls heavily onto her side, her throat hoarse from screaming. She’s wet and shivering, clawing at the ground, the side of her face pressed hard into the drenched undergrowth.

Pushing herself up, Gi stands on wobbly legs, disorientated before staggering blindly through the dense tree line. It takes her a moment to realise where she is; again, no longer within the confines of the cabin, but in the forest with no clue how she ended up here.

So she flees, her legs pumping through thick brush that whips her face and singlet-clad body.

It’s still pouring, but there’s no accompanying sound. No gentle pat of raindrops on leaves, just a deathly silence and a sense of foreboding she cannot shake.

Something is here with her. There’s a presence out there, watching and waiting. Biding its time. The trees ahead shake and rustle, branches snapping loudly, and the sound of footsteps cracking through the landscape. Stifling a sob, Gi runs for her life, dodging trees and heading toward the faint light burning in the distance, praying it’s Kwame’s lantern guiding the way home.

* * *

“Jesus,” Wheeler groans with a start, sitting bolt upright as Gi barrels through the door and crashes to the floor with a yelp, crawling on her hands and knees toward him.

“There’s something out there,“ she gasps, wiping tears away and glancing in the direction of the open doorway.

“What the hell were you doin’ outside?" he admonishes, still half asleep, his hair sticking up in all directions. Jumping to his feet, Wheeler leaps over Kwame’s passed-out figure and closes the door for the second time that night. He turns back toward her, looking annoyed at having been woken. “Felt like a fucking walk at three in the mornin’?”

“No,” she cries tearfully. “I don’t know how I —”

“Makin’ more noise than a —” Wheeler stops mid-sentence, his eyes alert and his body rigid. He whirls around, glancing back in the direction of the door, and that’s when Gi hears it, too.

A child’s voice, lilting and sweet can be heard above the rain. It ebbs and flows, alternately loud and soft but almost gleeful, and the sound makes Gi’s skin crawl. 

“What the hell?” Wheeler takes an involuntary step back, staring hard in the direction of the voice. “No goddamn way…”

The hairs on the back of Gi’s neck stands on end. She scrambles across the floor, shaking Kwame awake as the singing intensifies, a gothic hymn of nefarious origin.

“Gi… tell me you can hear that?” Wheeler says softly.

“Yeah,” Gi says tightly, shaking Kwame with greater urgency until he begins to stir. “Wake up!”

“Wha…?” Kwame groans, his voice still slurred with sleep. “Whaddisit —"

“There’s someone out there,” Wheeler says, gesturing toward the front door. “Get up —"

“I do not hear anything,” Kwame grumbles, running a hand over his head and glaring at the two of them. “Just go back to —"

“Dude, there’s someone out there,” Wheeler repeats. “Someone singin’.”

“At three in the morning?” Kwame appears dubious. He sits cross legged, looking mildly alarmed as the singing picks up again.

“You hearin’ that?”

Kwame leans forward, listening intently. “Oh my… It sounds like a child —”

“Why would a kid be all the way out here at —”

“Same reason we are?”

Wheeler snorts. “Suppose she took a fifty foot drop out of an aeroplane and followed us here too, did she?”

“It sounds like a little boy.” Kwame frowns as he finally raises his eyes to Gi, taking in her sodden state. “You’re saturated, Gi? Why are you all —”

“She took a twilight stroll,” Wheeler says distractedly, inching closer to the door, his hand outstretched. “I think it’s gone again —"

“Why were you outside?” Kwame stares at her, confused. “Why on earth would you —"

“I woke up out there!” she hisses. “I have no idea how I —"

Three sharp knocks reverberate, and Wheeler jumps back in fright. The singing starts again, seeming to come from right outside the front door, and Gi scrambles behind Kwame, cowering and wide-eyed with fear.

“Jesus…”

“This isn’t right,” Gi whispers. "Something is wrong —"

“Do we open it?” Kwame asks. “What if they are in trouble —”

“A simple ‘_hey, can you help me’ _would suffice,” Wheeler mutters. “Why the hell would they be singing'?"

"It might be a young child —"

"Well, they’re sure as hell not auditionin' for Star Search at this time of the mornin’—"

“Just open the door!”

“Be my guest,” Wheeler retorts, stepping carefully around the rotten floorboards and dropping to his knees beside Linka. “Russki,” Wheeler hisses, shoving her roughly. “Babe, wake up.”

She rolls over tiredly, swatting away his attempts to rouse her, and he shakes her again.

“Babe, get up!”

“What?” she moans, her body jerking from Wheeler’s persistent efforts to move her. “Get off me, Wh —”

The next three knocks shake the foundations of the cabin. Linka scurries to her feet with a start, knocking the nearby table with her hip and sending tools flying in all directions, and Gi winces at the noise it makes, not wanting to draw further attention to themselves.

The eerie voice is singing again, moving around the perimeter of the cabin, almost taunting them. Gi can just make out the words. She thinks it’s ‘Nearer, my God, to Thee’, a hymn more at home in a European church or gospel choir, rather than the wilds of uncivilised South East Asia.

The song ebbs away, and an unnatural quiet descends, bar the sound of their own shallow, ragged breathing.

“What was that?” Linka whispers. “Is someone out —"

The sound of fingernails on timber punctuates the silence, scratching up and down, taunting them, and Gi’s blood runs cold.

Kwame reaches his limit. He’s up and running, with Linka close behind, her arm outstretched and ring at the ready. He makes it to the door in three strides and wrenches it open…

There’s nothing there. No child, no entity, nothing but rain and dense mist. The fog is receding, however; trailing back through the forest in playful, wispy tendrils until the shadows are all that remain.

But a soft utterance echoes on the wind, a child’s innocent giggle, before that, too, fades...

* * *

“What was that?” Gi whispers. “What do we —"

“We get the fuck outta here!” Wheeler exclaims, gesturing toward the door. “Why is this even a question?”

“And go where?” Kwame replies impatiently. “Where would we go?”

“Well, I ain’t stayin’ in this freaky house of horrors any longer!”

“You heard the same thing as we did. Venturing outside is an option I am not even contemplating right now —”

Linka leans against the wall, looking pale and shaken. “It is probably some local bored teenagers from —”

“From where?” Wheeler retorts. “Six hours we walked today with no sign of civilisation!”

“Well, this cabin is here, Yankee! Someone has obviously —”

“This place has been abandoned for years,” Kwame says, pointing toward the crude shelving beneath the window. “Some of the items left behind trace back to the 1940’s. Whoever was here is long gone.”

“So we’re gonna sit on our asses and wait for the next creepy-ass thing to head our way?”

“We are safe, Wheeler,” Kwame says tiredly. “We are all unharmed for the moment. Nothing else has happened —”

Wheeler snorts, eyeing Gi. “Nothin’ except for Gi’s twilight unconscious rain dance about five minutes before all this shit started goin’ down!”

“I don’t remember anything,” Gi says tearfully, barely noticing Linka’s hands resting on her shoulders. “I’m not going back out there!”

“Why were you out there, Gi?” Kwame says accusingly. “What were you thinking?”

“I must have sleepwalked, Kwame,” she says pleadingly. “I really don’t remember —”

Kwame sighs. “Look. We stay together. We will take it in turns to keep watch —"

“So we’re takin’ our chances in the hillbilly huntin’ shack of death?”

“As opposed to taking our chances in your seemingly haunted forest?” Linka spits. “Of course, we are! We will stay here until morning and then find a way out… in daylight, you _eediot.”_

“Great,” Wheeler mutters, throwing his hands in the air. “What an intelligent plan.”

“_Da, _well, I do not think much of the alternative. Intelligence has never been your strong point, Wheeler!”

“Oh, there it is,” he snarls. “Ol’ Wheeler, dumber than a bag of rocks —”

“At this rate, I would give the bag of rocks more credit!"

“Oh, all hail the stuck-up genius with a major superiority complex!"

Linka’s face stills, her voice cold and wavering. “You really are an…” She stops, folding her arms and staring sullenly at him, her hair spilling in unkept waves over her right shoulder.

“Oh, come on, babe,” Wheeler goads. “Say it. You know you want to.”

“— _asshole_,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Feel better?”

“No… but by all means, take your chances out there with the disembodied voices and the murderous spirits, Wheeler. We will retrieve your battered corpse at first light —”

“Well, if I stay here, I risk gettin’ knifed in the back by a Russian beauty queen while I’m sleepin’, so I’m fucked either way.”

“I would knife you in the front,” Linka replies, almost conversationally. “I would allow you that courtesy. I would want you to see me coming —”

“Terrific,” Wheeler almost smirks. “I can take that one of two ways —”

“ENOUGH!” Kwame shouts, and the quarrelling pair fall silent. “You two are unbearable at the —"

“Is it morning?”

They all turn toward the speaker. Ma-Ti’s voice is thick from sleep, nestled beneath a pile of dusty blankets in the far corner. He tosses them aside and stretches, eyeing them all with mild annoyance.

“You’re kiddin’ me, right?” Wheeler utters, sharing Gi’s realisation that he slept through the entire thing.

* * *

They agree to take it in turns to keep watch.

Kwame volunteers for the first rotation, sitting upright on a milk crate by the door. He clutches a spear-looking implement that he found propped in the corner, ready to impale anything that attempts to broach their flimsy boundaries.

Gi nestles further into Linka, sharing her body heat. Wheeler has positioned himself on the other side, tossing and turning restlessly. Despite Linka’s initial protestations, Gi is glad to have him nearby.

Gi sighs, resting her head within the crook of her arm and listening to the incessant patter of rain above their heads. Flexing her hand, she feels a tightening through her knuckles and joints. The skin is swollen, and her hand alternates between a mild tingling sensation and being completely numb to the touch.

“Don’t,” Linka grumbles in her sleep. She swats away an invisible presence and flips over onto her other side, muttering under her breath. She bats blindly again, making an annoyed sound. "Leave me alone."

Gi sighs, eyeing Ma-Ti's curled-up figure in the corner. The Flash Gordon costume is clutched possessively against his chest, and a peaceful smile graces his lips.

Linka flops over again. “Stop it, Wheeler.”

“What?” Wheeler says testily, still and unmoving from his position on the other side.

“Stop poking me.”

“I’m not touchin’ you.”

It’s 3:45am. Gi yawns, comforted by the fact that there’s only a few hours left until sunrise.

* * *

_Thumping footsteps. They start slow and pick up pace, followed by a sharp skidding sound. Silence. Shuffling. Then it repeats._

_Thump. _

_Thump. Thump. _

_Thump thump thump thump thump thump._

_Boom!_

_Shuffle._

_The sequence starts yet again, and she’s asleep. For god’s sake, she’s asleep. How utterly thoughtless. No one ever listens. No one ever pays her no mind. No one ever takes the time to consider the needs of Gi, the scrappy little nobody trying to nap in the hammock._

_It’s been a rough week, and they’re all tired, all so deserving of time off. Sometimes, she doesn’t want to be an adult. She wants to build castles in the sand. She wants to play with cars and kick a ball around. She wants to build with her hands. She doesn’t want the responsibility that comes with forced independence, she wants to run around and cry and scream and chuck the occasional tantrum, without the fear of eye rolling and whispered complaints that still reach her ears even though she can’t hear them being uttered._

_Forced to mature before her time. Grow up. You have no idea. You're such a kid… when she is a kid._

_The cool Hope Island breeze floats across her face, and the smell of salt and sand comforts her, lulls her back into a peaceful —_

_Thump. _

_Thump. Thump. _

_Thump thump thump thump thump thump._

* * *

Boom!

The sound startles Gi awake, and a pair of thin, linen-clad legs appear too close to her face for comfort. She sits bolt upright, not expecting to see Ma-Ti’s grinning face bearing down on her. He’s dressed head to toe in the Flash Gordon outfit; the vertical stripes flashing silver and ghostly in the lamp light.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Wheeler’s voice is rough. He’s awake and upright too, looking utterly baffled.

Ma-Ti grins, propping his hands on his hips and thrusting his chest out “How cool is this, guys?”

“I’ll repeat…” Wheeler utters. “What the —”

Gi blinks in disbelief. “Ma-Ti, why are you —”

Ma-Ti pumps his fist outward and dashes across the room again, his cape billowing behind him, his head bowed as he ‘launches’ himself into flight.

Thump.

Thump. Thump.

Thump thump thump thump thump thump.

Boom. He takes a running jump and crashes loudly, waking Linka in the process.

Gi runs a hand through her hair, bewildered. She glances at Kwame who’s still keeping watch by the door. He hasn’t moved in all this time, seemingly frozen in place, his face lined and haggard with worry.

“Why don’t you get some sleep, Kwame?”

“I will find no rest here tonight,” Kwame mutters, and Gi finds herself mildly alarmed at the beads of sweat running down Kwame’s face.

“Are you all right?”

Kwame doesn’t answer.

* * *

_The food on offer is a sublime smorgasbord of delights. There’s chocolate mousse in decorative cups, garnished with whipped cream and cherries. There are piles of delectable apple crumble served within brightly toned dishes, and blueberry tarts with sugared glaze dripping over the side of the short crust pastry._

_Meringues and donuts sit on multi-level, ornate platters. Tea cakes and banoffee pie. Crème caramel and bulbous, puffy souffles, cooked to perfection. Chunks of rocky road and thick slabs of brownies lie scattered, adorned with fudge icing and walnuts._

_Gi licks her lips in anticipation. She digs in heartily, sighing in pleasure as the taste of vanilla ice cream tracks lusciously down her throat._

_Ma-Ti reaches for a chocolate mousse. “Oh my god,” he drawls, scooping the contents out eagerly, a dreamy expression on his face. “This is so good.”_

_“Have you tried the ice cream?” Gi asks, her mouth full._

_He jabs his spoon toward her with a grin. “I’ll try that next.”_

_Kwame samples a little of everything. He doesn’t overload his plate, just takes his time, enjoying each morsel that passes his lips._

_Another tray is served, and it’s plopped down in front of Linka. She gazes down at the butter cake in front of her, licking her lips, but her hands remain clenched within her lap. The cinnamon and sugar congeal at the base of the spoon Kwame uses to samples the Russian dessert._

_“It is soft, yet crunchy,” Kwame announces, a faraway look in his eyes. “It is delicious. Linka, you should have some.”_

_She shakes her head vehemently, her shoulders slumped in defeat as the others dig in. Linka risks a glance at Wheeler who is also not eating; his jaw set and his arms folded across his chest, glowering in the general direction of the brownies._

_They sit miserably at opposite ends of the table, staring at the food with bereft expressions, because they really, really want what’s in front of them. That much is evident._

_Gi’s eyes don’t linger on them for long. The pecan pie is calling, and she answers. It’s sweet and just the right texture, a true ‘melt in your mouth’ morsel of perfection. She chews, blissful and content, ignoring the back and forth bickering already starting between the pair._

_An argument kicks off. Linka and Wheeler are soon on their feet, shouting at one another. They deflect, antagonise, ridicule and belittle one another, and Gi sighs, because if only they would just try some food. They’d like it. Just have some, she says._

_Just have some._

_Ma-Ti offers them a slice of brownie, but they both disappear from the banquet room in a hail of angry, embittered words; words they don’t really mean… but they’re too caught up in the façade to admit anything otherwise._

* * *

A spider’s web hangs low over her face, dangling from the ceiling. Gi bats it away and attempts to stretch, but her elbows are stuck and the muscles in her neck ache. She glances around, disorientated, and it takes a moment to realise she’s no longer huddled on the floor with the others, waiting for the sun to rise.

The old timber chest from the second room lies open and Gi is wedged tightly within it, curled up in a ball. She peers over the edge, noting the contents previously piled inside now tossed randomly across the floor. The rain still falls, drumming gently on the ceiling, and the metal trolley lies discarded on the other side of the small room.

She flops back tiredly, her legs bent at the knee and her feet propped over the edge, cursing her most recent nocturnal wandering. Gi’s hand lies numb and awkward across her chest, and she wonders if a purplish hue is indeed starting to creep up her arm, or if it’s the lack of light and her imagination playing tricks.

More thumps are coming from the main room, and she curses Ma-Ti’s prolonged outburst of childish exuberance. They’re all acting strange, though. 

Clutching the edge of the box tightly, she’s half out of the chest when the trolley starts rolling toward her, guided by an invisible hand. Her body goes rigid, and she eyes the phenomenon with a mounting sense of dread.

The wheels squeak and tremble, moving with an intentional slowness until it comes to an abrupt stop, nudging Gi’s foot. An unnatural quiet descends, and a coldness settles, her breath frosting the air in front of her. She’s white-knuckled with fear, positive that there’s something else in here with her.

An ear-piercing scream shatters the silence. It’s enough to break the paralysis and she’s up and on her feet, barrelling toward the panicked voices coming from the next room. The trolley suddenly launches across the room, collecting the back of her legs. She’s sent sprawling, crashing to the ground with a pained squeal. Gi crawls through the narrow opening on her knees and elbows, glancing back as the trolley shudders and launches itself again, colliding with the wall and narrowly missing her feet.

The room lights up again, and Gi groans in pain, dragging herself onward, but her fingers claw through swampy soil and her back is already soaked; the downpour relentless. Water streams down her face as she staggers to her feet, and she’s sobbing, because she’s back in the fucking forest again, blundering around in the rain, her arm now hanging limp and useless by her side.

High-pitched screams rent the air; a maddening symphony of men, women and children seemingly in their death throes, and she wonders if she’s going mad: Gi, the scrappy little nobody about to be become a permanent fixture of this otherworldly landscape.

Another flash of lightning strikes, and the forest turns white for a fraction of a second. She staggers back, tripping over a tree root and landing heavily on her ass. There’s a symbol marked on the trunk in front of her, etched into the timber, the same one as she saw before, and it strikes a bolt of fear into her heart, that perhaps it was a warning they wilfully ignored.

Bulky shapes lurch past her field of vision, lumbering and dark, and she’s up and running again, mud and dirt flying everywhere, her ragged breath catching in her throat.

The cabin looms ahead, surrounded by thick fog. She launches herself onto the veranda and barrels through the door, slamming the door shut behind her and skidding to the floor. The others are all on their feet, in various states of panic.

Ma-Ti stares in the direction of the second room, his eyes wide and searching. Linka is cowering in the corner, hysterical and tear-stained, and Wheeler is on his knees beside her, trying to placate her.

“SOMETHING PULLED MY HAIR!” Linka sobs, clutching the side of her head. “I AM NOT IMAGINING IT —”

“Just calm down,” Wheeler pleads. Pulling her up and into his arms, he glances at Gi, taking in her wet, distressed appearance. “Jesus, not again —"

“Something’s out there —” Gi cries. “We need to leave, something’s very wrong here —” She trails off, mortified at the sight of her now blackened hand lying limply against her side. She starts to cry pitifully, raising the shrivelled limb in front of her. “Oh my God, my arm… my arm —"

“What about your arm?” Wheeler snaps, his patience — and composure — already broken. “What the hell are you talkin’ —”

“What do you mean, _what about it_?” she shouts, cradling the dead limb against her chest. “Look at it!”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with your arm,” Wheeler shouts back. “There’s nothin’ there! You’re imaginin’ it —”

“I’m not imagining it,” Gi cries, shoving her arm in front of his face. “How can you not see —”

Three booming knocks sound from the front door, and they freeze, staring at one another. Gi wipes her eyes with her good hand as the screaming she heard outside starts up again; high-pitched, desolate wails of despair.

“Shit,” Wheeler hisses. “Shit, shit, shit —

“Guys?” Ma-Ti is pale and shaking, pointing in the direction of the smaller room. “I think I saw someone moving in there —"

“I want to leave —” Linka cries tearfully, pressing herself closer to Wheeler. She's trembling and terrified. “Kwame, we need to —”

“Kwame, would you snap the fuck out of it,” Wheeler bellows, glaring at the Earth Planeteer still sitting by the door, clutching his spear. His eyes are glazed and he’s evidently in a world of his own right now, oblivious to the pandemonium going on around him.

“It’s spreading to my shoulder!" Gi howls. "Why is no one listening to —"

"You're all freakin' nuts!"

"No-one ever listens to me! I'm sick of it, I —"

“There’s someone walking around in there,” Ma-Ti says warningly. He hurries toward the others, his eyes still locked on the second room opening. “Someone in a mask —"

“OW!” Linka shrieks, and Gi actually witnesses her friend’s head whip back violently, her hands already clutching the roots of her hair to relieve the pressure. “Someone is pull —"

Linka’s legs are yanked out from under her. Wheeler loses his grip on her and she crashes to the floor with a terrified squeal. She’s spun on the spot and flung across the room by an unseen force. Throwing her hands in front of her face, Linka collides with the wall, dislodging the tools hanging from rusted hooks. They topple down on her in a hail of heavy metal rain, and she clutches her head, wailing in fear and pain.

"Jesus!" Wheeler springs into action as the last hammer wobbles precariously, but he’s not fast enough. It drops too, making a sickening sound against Linka’s skull. He grabs her under the arms and drags her free; her body now limp and her chin lolling against her chest.

“WE’RE LEAVIN’!” Wheeler bellows, throwing Linka’s unconscious weight over his shoulder and rushing for the door. “MOVE YOUR ASSES!”

They dash out after him in a flurry of hurried footsteps, and Gi and Ma-Ti have to physically coerce Kwame into following. He’s a lost cause; disorientated and vacant, the weight of the world on his broad shoulders.

The orange hues of sunrise have appeared on the horizon, and Gi has never been so relieved to see them in her life. They flee through the trees, using the sun as their guide. The sky lights up again but the rain is receding finally, and the trees are all marked as they pass, every single goddamn one of them marked with identically carved symbols, stretching as far as the eye can see.

Gi glances back fearfully, and that’s when she sees them, dozens of shapes shifting around the cabin, twisted and elongated. There are voices floating on the air, inane chatter, laughter, screams of pain, and the god-forsaken singing, and she wonders is maybe this is madness, if they’ve been pushed to the brink of insanity, or if they’d unwittingly ventured into a place where they were neither wanted nor welcome.

There’s a figure dead centre, hunched and motionless. The hessian bag from the chest sits lopsided on squared shoulders, the ghastly stitching stretched into a leering grin.

She clutches Kwame’s hand and runs faster, cresting the embankment and weaving through the trees. Exhausted and fearful, they follow the path of the rising sun, seeking what it represents: light and hope and salvation, as opposed to the darkness they’ve left behind.

* * *

The beginnings of a dirt road appear within an hour. After another hour, a series of ramshackle roadside stalls appear in the distance, and it’s like a mirage to their disbelieving eyes. They stumble wearily toward them, and Gi collapses into the first faded plastic chair she finds. Ma-Ti and Kwame join her, their faces haggard and grim.

The local residents eye them curiously, springing into action and cooking enough vegetables and noodles to feed a small army, prepared on rudimentary skillets. They’re soon fed and watered, attended by two pre-pubescent girls and an old woman who appears surpassingly agile for her age.

After half an hour, Gi is beginning to feel half-human again.

The group nurse their wounds while they wait for assistance to arrive. They’re all silent. No one has said a word since the cabin, other than Ma-Ti's grunt of disgust pertaining to the moth-eaten one-piece superhero suit he's still wearing. He strips it off quickly, appearing both surprised and utterly mortified to be wearing it at all. 

Gi flexes her hand, noting the slightly mottled skin that appears otherwise pink and relatively healthy.

She takes in her surroundings. An older boy sits at a snack stand, staring longingly at a soccer game undertaken by kids in a nearby field. Three underfed chickens scrounge through the scraps around their feet. A chubby baby girl of about a year-old sits in the dirt, clad only in a nappy and grimy singlet, her knuckles jammed into her mouth. She gnaws on them contentedly.

Ma-Ti dozes, his forehead resting on the table. Wheeler hasn’t left Linka’s side. He’s propped against a tree in the shade, his head tipped back, and his eyes closed. Linka lies curled up beside him, and his hand lies protectively over her forehead. The arguments and harsh words seem behind them now... for the moment, anyway.

Gi swats flies away, ignoring the glances and whispers from the curious village residents. The baby crawls in their direction, and Gi watches Kwame lean forward, holding out his hands. She grasps hold of his fingers and pulls herself up on unsteady legs, balancing between his knees. She smiles, noting the child’s dirt-smeared face and brown eyes, and the nonsensical babble issuing from her lips.

Ma-Ti stirs, bleary eyed and fatigued, settling his chin on his forearm, his face pensive. "I think I will join a team," Ma-Ti announces randomly while the rest of them stare bewilderingly at him. "Perhaps soccer?"

No-one responds.

"I don't know..." He shrugs, laying his head down again. "It is just an idea."

Gi scratches her head, wondering about the logistics of such a request in their current line of work, but anything seems possible after the events of last night.

Her finger tracks patterns in the light layer of dirt coating the table, tracing the symbol from the trees. It’s committed to memory; a reminder of what she has witnessed; a confirmation of what they have experienced. The motions are soothing and repetitive, but the irate response of the family matriarch passing by is anything but.

The old lady lets loose, shrieking and furious, shoving Gi aside and using an old dish rag to scrub the offensive ‘graffiti’ from the plastic. The woman is still livid as she stalks away, screeching at the top of her lungs. Despite the language barrier, Gi is still mortified at being on the receiving end of an apparent verbal tongue-lashing.

But before she can dwell on things any further, the sound of a car engines sputters to life and their transportation finally arrives.

* * *

Gi looks up, startled as Ma-Ti drops a pile of paperwork in front of her. A cloud of dust settles in the air as he takes a seat opposite her, flipping through textbooks and yellowed manuscripts.

The common room is unusually silent tonight. The soft glow of the television comforts her. The volume is down low, and even though she can't see them, Gi knows that two of her friends are quietly cuddling, their bodies nestled together and the back of the couch hiding them from view, granting them a modicum of privacy. Judging by the alternating periods of laughter and subdued whispers, she suspects there might be some second-base shenanigans occurring on the other side.

Gi turns her attention back to Ma-Ti. “Light reading?” she asks, peeling back the front cover of a tattered scrapbook and noting the black-and-white photographs scattered throughout.

“I need answers,” he says. “I’m trying to remember.”

“Dude, we’re trying to forget,” Wheeler voice mutters from the couch, because no one’s talking about ‘that night’. It’s like it never happened; relegated to the darkest depths of their minds and buried under lock and key.

“Here,” Ma-Ti grunts, flipping open a massive document and leafing through the pages until he settles on a particular section. Gi grimaces, glancing over an old reference photograph showing piles of bodies and uniformed soldiers standing amongst them.

“What’s this?”

“World War Two,” Ma-Ti says, rubbing his brow. “Japanese occupation. Kalagong village. Around 1000 people massacred —”

“Okay…” Gi says, perturbed. She eyes Kwame as he pads towards them bare-foot. Pulling up a seat, he sits down, hunched over and listening intently.

“British forces liberated the country in 1945,” Ma-Ti says, switching books and flipping several more pages. “Uh, here,” he says, tapping another photograph showing the remains of a small town. “Mass burial. All swept under the rug, so to speak. Ten years went by. A Rohingya community was established nearby. There was an incident at their mosque in the 1960’s —”

Kwame winces. “I don’t think I want to know —"

“Religious persecution. Christian missionaries took up residence soon after, preaching the faith. Built a church. Again, they encountered resistance. Agitators roped the exits shut and set the place alight —”

“_Bozhe moy.” _Linka peers over the back of the couch; her chin propped on her folded arms whilst she avoids Wheeler's attempts to drag her back down. The large-egg shape lump on her forehead is still tender and swollen, but she doesn't appear all too bothered by it. “With people inside?”

“Yes. Around eighty people perished.”

_Nearer my God to Thee, _Gi recalls, with a shiver running down her spine.

“Local manuscripts,” Ma-Ti says, pulling out a copy of a handwritten document. “Village was pretty much razed in the 1970’s. One outhouse remained. It was primarily used as a half-way house for illegal hunting, and smuggling jade and amber between borders, but that didn’t last long.”

“For obvious reasons,” Wheeler mutters.

“The village name was soon struck from local records. There are stories of people straying too close and disappearing. Superstitions and legends, really, but I am starting to see some truth —”

“What superstitions?” Gi asks.

“I had a friend do some digging,” Ma-Ti explains. “He said the neighbouring villages consider the place haunted — plagued by black magic and witchcraft. No one ventures past the boundaries now, except for bored teenagers —"

“— and hapless idiots like us,” Wheeler interjects.

Ma-Ti grunts in agreement. “The older generation of Burmese villagers placed warnings around the area —”

Gi’s ears prick up. “What warnings?”

Ma-Ti shrugs, but Gi thinks she already knows the answer.

“So, we stumbled upon a shitty little hut in a voodoo graveyard, and the residents were rightly pissed off about it?” Wheeler says.

“Personally?” Ma-Ti replies, gathering his documents and heaving them into his arms. “I think we were judged…”

Ma-Ti wanders away, balancing his physical and proverbial load carefully. He heads for his hut, and the remaining Planeteers contemplate his words.

“Judged on what?” Linka asks quietly. “I do not understand —”

“Judged on our sins,” Wheeler says. “Judged on our decisions. Judged on our poor navigational skills —"

“Not everyone was judged,” Gi shrugs. “Ma-Ti said some people have gone missing... presumed dead.”

“Then why the hell are we not six-feet down in a ditch somewhere?”

“Maybe we were deemed worthy?” Gi replies. “Maybe this was some kind of rite of passage?”

“I kept dreamin’,” Wheeler mutters. He presses himself up against Linka, slipping his arms around her neck and resting his chin on her shoulder. “Really fucked-up, horrific stuff.”

Gi nods. “Me, too.”

“Brownies,” Wheeler mutters. “Goddamn, decadent brownies...”

“What?” Linka looks confused. “God, Wheeler. Even your nightmares involve food —"

”Like a dessert buffet —” Gi begins, and Wheeler looks up, surprised.

“Yeah.”

"Maybe we shared dreams —" Gi starts.

"For what purpose —"

“But I did not dream…” Linka interrupts, bewildered, and Wheeler eyes her with mock derision.

“Nah, toots. You were used as a human punchin’ bag.”

“Remind me to thank Argos Bleak for allowing us this unpleasant experience,” Gi says tiredly.

Wheeler smirks. “I already did, remember?” he says in a low voice, flexing the fire ring sitting snugly back on his finger. “Wrote him a flamin’ thank you note.”

“You blew up his car,” Linka says under her breath.

“Yeah, that too. Got our rings back, though."

"I got our rings back," Linka says in disbelief. "You committed a shameless act of vandalism."

"Revenge is a dish best served cold," Wheeler says with a grin. "Or in my case, pipin' hot."

"Maybe this was a lesson?" Gi says. "There were obviously other forces at play, here. We saw things that —"

"Scared the living' shit out of us?"

Gi purses her lips and nods, and they all go quiet again.

Wheeler flops back onto the couch, and Linka utters a high-pitched squeal as she's dragged out of sight again. Quiet whispers and giggles punctuate the air again for a while, and the odd limb flops around within Gi's line of sight. She finds herself missing the arguments.

Kwame remains at the table, still deep in thought, and Gi wonders if he’s more traumatised than the rest of them. He’s been keeping to himself, dealing with things in his own unique way.

Eventually, Wheeler gets to his feet and stretches, looking somewhat flushed and dishevelled. He rounds the couch and heads for the beach, evidently to rid himself of the memories (and other potential side effects of a physical nature), and Linka is quick to straighten her clothing and dash out after him. She keeps him close now, following him around like a puppy, and it’s been a quiet, almost pleasant week despite the circumstances.

Gi sighs, rising to her feet and padding to the kitchen, intent on making a coffee strong enough to alter her current reality. Flipping the kettle on, she notes the sugar granules spilt over the countertop and makes a mental note to kick Wheeler’s ass about his lack of housekeeping skills.

“I failed.”

“What?” she says, startled, swivelling on her heels and bumping into Kwame’s solid frame. He’s standing right behind her, and she didn't even hear him leave his seat. “What do you mean, you —”

“I knew I was hallucinating, but… I still, I… I could not get the images —”

"What were you hallucinating?"

"I froze. I panicked."

“What images,” she prods gently, leaning against the counter, the tea all but forgotten.

“Death.”

“Your own death?”

“No.” He reaches for her hand, just as he did before, running the pad of his thumb over her palm, tracing the feather-light veins running just beneath the skin. "Not my death."

“I… uh," she says distractedly. "I kept dreaming, too —” she says softly, doing her best to reassure him. “I think we all did. I know I kept waking up and I wasn't where I —”

"I do not believe in an afterlife," he says vehemently. "I do not believe in a life after death, but..."

"But you can't discount what we saw?" 

He shakes his head. "No."

"Do you think they wanted to hurt us?" she whispers. "I think they were ghosts —"

Kwame shakes his head again, because he still won’t talk about what he witnessed, about what he experienced; the memories resonating loudly in his head and creating havoc within his neatly ordered mind.

“We will need to reconvene next week,” he sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Check on the progress of the —”

“I was on fire… burning to death. And then I was drowning. I’d wake up somewhere else. I swear… my hand and arm had turned black, all the way up to my elbow —” she stammers, because she can't stop herself, it’s all exploding out of her mouth like word vomit now. “No one believed me —"

He nods, his mouth pressed into a hard line, evidently grappling with something.

"Anyway," she says, unsure of why she's so nervous all of a sudden, although she guesses its to do with the way Kwame is gazing so intently at her. "I suppose we need to just move on and put this down to a —"

“Would you like to go out for dinner?” Kwame blurts out. He passes a flustered hand over his head, and it’s the most nervous she’s ever seen him.

The dumbstruck look on her own face probably comes pretty close to matching his.

“I mean, with me,” he says, staring down at her hand still enfolded within his own. “Dinner,” he repeats, as if the subject needs clarification, and she realises she hasn’t answered his question.

“Okay,” she replies breathlessly, unable to hide the flush creeping into her cheeks or the dumb smile curling her lips. “Sure.”

He gives her an equally dumb thumbs-up signal in response that morphs into a self-conscious half-wave, as if he regretted the gesture but had already committed himself to it and had no choice but to follow through.

"All right," he says. "Good."

He ambles away, leaving her standing in the kitchen with a tea bag still clutched in her hand, and she’s again struck by the burden he seems to carry… but then, they all carry burdens. 

Kwame bears the burden of responsibility.

Ma-Ti bears the burden of a missed childhood.

Gi bears the burden of loneliness and regret.

Wheeler and Linka bear the burden of one another, of unrequited love.

Maybe their weaknesses were identified and exploited by whatever force they had encountered. Or perhaps their individual burdens were uncovered, buried in the harsh light of day, but laid bare in the dead of night, harsh and unforgiving.

Maybe their burdens were apparent for everyone to see. Maybe a shared understanding and a sense of empathy were to be gained from this experience.

Gi turns to flick the kettle back on, and she feels someone close behind her, instinctively knowing it's him. She smiles, feeling the gentle weight of his hands on her shoulders as he spins her around.

"If you're trying to scam a cup of tea out of me —"

He takes her face gently in his hands. The rest of her words are drowned out as he bends down and kisses her. She stands stiffly, too stunned to respond, her fingers knotting into his shirt in an effort to ground herself, the stupid tea bag still dangling from her fingers.

He breaks away and pulls her in for a hug, holding her close against his chest, his face pressed into the curve of her neck, and it's only then that she visibly relaxes. Gi wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him back, stretched up on her tippy-toes and still only just reaching the height of his upper sternum. She’s so small in his arms, and she decides that she likes it here, likes the way he towers over her, tall and secure and strong. She feels safe in his embrace.

It’s over too soon. Kwame kisses her forehead and wanders away, and she stands in the kitchen with the kettle steaming beside her, her mug abandoned and his touch still lingering on her skin — warming to the knowledge that Gi, the scrappy little nobody, was perhaps worthy of being somebody.


End file.
